


Year Three

by ohohpierre



Series: the devil's got nothing on me, my friend. [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, F/M, Gryffindor Draco, Gryffindor Draco Malfoy, M/M, Slow Burn, The Golden Four are all a little messed up, They're all getting older and I'm getting sadder, Time Travel, Timeline Shifts, i apparently love writing details, so get ready for details, some elements of the story changed removed or edited, when details are not needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohohpierre/pseuds/ohohpierre
Summary: Draco is sorted into Gryffindor. The Golden Trio is the Golden Quartet. They all have issues. And they are entering Year Three.Doors are opening, stairs are changing, and the four Hogwarts students face challenges they never thought they could (or should) overcome.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> _ The four of them, on the cusp of transitioning from childhood to adolescence, each wear their burdens on their sleeves, and carry them on their backs, none of them willing to ask the others for help. _
> 
> _They are mature beyond their years. As they should not have to be. ___

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are mature beyond their years. As they should not have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update every 15th! Keep an eye out.

The word “home” has never been one that Draco has known the full definition of; it is an unfamiliar word. Hogwarts had come the closest to being what Draco considered home. He had, at one point, considered it a safe place. It wasn’t the Manor. He was away from his father. Hogwarts had let him down. His friends were with him, always by his side, but Hogwarts was not safe anymore. It sought to destroy his friends. It houses an evil within its old stone walls.

Andromeda’s house has been the first to be close to a home. Her house is safe.

Her daughter, thought she no longer lives with them, is an eccentric character. Her bright pink hair her tell-tale characteristic, her personality second, and Draco is _fascinated_ by her, though he would never allow himself to speak that truthfully.

His opinions on the life they live is not his place, even though he finds himself holding his tongue at the more unusual aspects of their living. And Draco is caught off guard by a lot.

The family is affectionate. Touches here are gentle; they are not to be used as a threat. Magic is a luxury here, not a necessity. It takes a while for Draco to understand why Andromeda insists on handwashing her dishes, why Tonks climbs the bookshelves to reach her books, why Ted uses a lighter for his pipe. Here, magic is not seen as a power symbol.

Draco does not fit in easily, and yet he does. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the bad thoughts of: _why do I fit into places where I do not belong? Where I should never have been welcome?_ Draco is brash compared to these people, but they take him under their wings despite this. They do not look down upon them.

Mother visits whenever she can. Where she once was able to stop by once a week becomes more and more fleeting as Lucius tightens the reins on his family. Draco thinks _fuck him, I’m not his family anymore,_ but he knows Mother would not approve of his language, but would approve of the emotion behind them.

“The Weasleys have offered to take you in for the summer, or rather the youngest is, should you find yourself-,” Narcissa takes in a breath, “…uncomfortable here.” Narcissa still harbors ill-will against them. Andromeda looks at her sister, a defiant look in his eyes.

“Now Sissy, you know he is welcome here.”

“_Don’t_ call me ‘Sissy,’ Andromeda. Despite his father, I am trying to keep our family together.” Andromeda sits back in her chair with a small harrumph, unwilling to argue.

“Should Draco wish to leave, he is more than allowed. He is old enough to make his own decisions, don’t you think?”

He looks between his mother and his aunt, a dejected feeling in his stomach as he realizes that things will potentially never be as normal and carefree as his life used to be. He shakes his head.

“I’d like to stay here.” Narcissa rests her hand on his shoulders, and Andromeda smiles.

“So, it’s settled, then!” she says excitedly, and doesn’t see Narcissa roll her eyes. Draco sees a small smirk on his mother’s face. _Amused_. “Will you be staying for dinner?” Narcissa’s expression falls, and she takes a quick look at her watch. 

“No,” she says, and Draco looks to the floor, “Lucius would not be pleased with me.”

“Is he ever?”

“No, it appears he is not.” Narcissa collects her cloak, giving Draco a quick caress of his cheek. “Take care dear. I will write when I can.” And his mother leaves with a loud crack, a slight wind moving Draco’s hair.

His mother may be trying to hold his family together, but he has never felt farther from them.

He is finding it hard to allow himself to be cared for.

It is summer time. It is hot, and Draco spends a lot of his time outside in Andromeda’s garden. He tends to it quietly, appreciating the flowers and the plants his aunt has collected. Many of them are of wizarding origin that he actually knows how to care for, but the plot is riddled by Muggle plants that Draco does not know the names of. He finds he does not mind them. They may not move of their own accord, but the aromas of roses and rosemary intermingling in his nostrils is one he has come to enjoy. There is a calm responsibility in maintaining a garden.

He is sitting on the grass, the feeling of it slightly uncomfortable under his form, and there is sweat on his forehead and above his lips. His enjoys this feeling much more than the cold. The cold and wet and slimy feeling of damp stone of a chamber-.

He cuts himself off. He does not allow himself to think of those moments, down in the chamber, with his consciousness slipping away slowly as he lay dying. There were more important things. His friends. Ron. Hermione. Harry, the boy who carries the world on his shoulders. His guilt and thoughts should mean nothing to them. Against his judgement, he shoves away everything bad in his brain, far away from the forefront of his mind. He can’t live any other way.

Draco takes in a deep breath, the humid air around him stinging his throat, but it is not a bad feeling. He can hear summer noises around him. He allows himself this peace.

This peace is his. 

He hears a door opening. “Draco dear? Supper.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Make sure to wash your hands. You’ve been tending nicely to the garden.” Draco stands, looks at his hands, sees dirt under his fingernails. He goes to wipe his hands on his pants but pauses. He must look unkempt. Father would be angry. Draco is pleased. He wipes his hands.

“I’m hoping to bring the dittany back, it appears to be wilting.” Andromeda smiles at him.

“Maybe you could use some for a potion,” she says, her arm outstretched in a silent beckoning. “I’ve always had a feeling you would excel at Potions.” Draco joins his aunt at the door, and the two enter. 

“Has any mail come for me?” Draco asks, and as the words leave his mouth, he is unsure if he wants the answer. His friends had promised him, but they had promised the previous year too. Andromeda looks sad, not for herself, but for Draco.

“Not yet dear.” She knows he wants to hear from his friends. He had made sure to send quick word to the three of them, to let them know he has a place here. He is not worried for Ron and Hermione, and their homes far away from anything harmful. He worried for Harry. Harry makes him feel a lot of things.

Draco exhales, shaking his head, and follows his aunt to the dinner table, taking his place carefully, and conversation lulls into a quiet static.

* * *

He will be sent off to Hogwarts soon enough. Draco can feel the change of the seasons in the air. A crisp feeling is somewhere close by.

The screech of an owl gets his attention, a solitary shout, and Draco looks up immediately, the quickest flash of white wings catching his eye as he reaches for the note it has just left behind. He ignores the feeling of relief that spreads through him, and hates how easy it is. He wishes the owl had stayed. He does not see much of Hedwig.

The handwriting on the front of the envelope looks rushed, and if he didn’t know any better, he would be worried. Harry’s writing has always been notoriously atrocious, however.

He unseals the letter without another thought.

_Draco, _

_The Weasleys and I will be meeting at the Leaky Cauldron in the lead up to the school year, if you wish to join us. Ron is insisting. I would like you to join us. _

_Harry. _

He pushes away that lump that appeared in his throat, pushes away the feeling that had just tried to jump back to the front of his mind. He wasn’t ready to see Harry again. He wasn’t ready to face those feelings again, and to confront the consequences of them. He didn’t understand everything that happened in the chamber, and he could feel that Harry didn’t understand either.

He pens back a quick refusal. Perhaps he would be ready another time. 

* * *

Ron had been insisting that Draco be allowed over since the summer holidays had begun. He had been insisting even longer that Harry be allowed over. It took some persuading of his parents, Molly and Arthur being opposed.

“Ronald, dear-,” his mother began, and Ron struggled to find his voice. “We can’t.”

“Is it because he’s a Malfoy?” Arthur squirmed slightly, look to Molly as if for guidance. 

“You don’t know what his father is like.”

“Well, I’m not inviting his father over, I’m inviting Draco.” Ron took in a deep breath; he was working himself up and acting like a petulant teenager would do nothing to help the situation. “He’s not even allowed home.”

Arthur was nodding. “I know son-.”

“Would you be acting like this if I was only asking Harry over?” He knew he was making a good point, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to articulate it correctly. “You don’t know what Draco is even like.” He could see his parents share a look, and he knows he is losing. “At least think on it?”

He turns his back before he can receive an answer. Molly releases a heavy sigh. He pens letters to the both of them nevertheless, telling of his attempts. And when Arthur and Molly finally relent, he sends even more letters, having still not learned the proper etiquette of speaking on a telephone.

And when he receives his replies, he tries not to take it personally. Harry’s relatives are a terrible sort, and Draco is settling in with new family. Of course they should want to spend their summers elsewhere. Far away. Far away from him and his loud and obnoxious personality and his large family. Far away.

He retreats back to his room, and he does not attempt to ask his parents again.

* * *

If Draco could see Harry now, he’d be surprised to find that they were spending their summers in quite a similar way. In Harry’s case, though, he hid in the garden rather than tended to it.

The summer hear, much too hot for his liking, felt like a heavy blanket hanging even more heavily around his neck. Life felt like far too much, and always resting on his young shoulders. From inside the house, there was an indistinct yell, and Harry closed his eyes. He kept still to his hiding place. He could hear footsteps past the windows before silence. He exhaled. 

Hogwarts was calling to him, and despite the experiences of the previous two years, Harry knew he would be answering the call.

He yearned to see his friends once again. He knew Ron had invited him to the Burrow, but the letter had been immediately tossed into the fire, the “no magic” bursting past Uncle Vernon’s purple lips. Hermione and Draco knew better than to send him these letters directly.

The sounds of the outside world were close to lulling him to sleep, and he wanted nothing more than to drift away into the summer night. The summer, sticky heat left him sweated, beads of salt appearing on his forehead, but Harry did not wipe them away. It was humid. The clouds were turning gray. There would be rain into the afternoon. With his eyes closed, this summer lasted forever. This peace was his.

When he opened his eyes, he could see clouds rolling ever closer from the distance, these ones more threatening than simple rain clouds. A thunderstorm. He huffed. As if the evening couldn’t get any worse. He pressed his back against the siding of the house, pulling his knees up, and he watched as a black car arrived at the front of the house. Aunt Marge.

His peace was gone as the shrill screech of his aunt called loudly to Harry. He was ready to go home.

* * *

Mrs. Granger has noticed a change in her daughter.

Mainly, the fact that she has taken to not being alone for too long. Hermione has always savored solitude, since she was a little girl with a giant library book in her little hands. Hours would be spent up in her bedroom, sitting near a window until the bright light of day had faded and she was forced to turn on the lamps. Remnants of this Hermione still remain; they would always be a part of her.

But Mrs. Granger has quickly noticed that Hermione has set base in the living room. Surrounded by windows and clutter and picture frames, she has seen the tension within her daughter now eased by the chaos rather than the silence.

She doesn’t want to be concerned. She wouldn’t be normally – _teenagers go through many phases, particularly when those teenagers are also witches_ – if it were not for the fact that Hermione has not brought herself to speaking of her previous year of schooling. When Mrs. Granger asks, Hermione answers vaguely, generally. Mrs. Granger finds that she cannot broach the subject without Hermione tensing, or zoning out completely, as though paralyzed.

She worries for her daughter.

Hermione, with a tough smile on her face, brushes away the concern from her mother and father. This is what parents do, and in turn, this is how teenagers respond. She does not wish to regale her family with her stories and traumas from her second year. She does not wish to worry them more than they already were. She lives in a world that they are completely unfamiliar with, one that despite her intellect, she will never be able to accurately describe them.

Hogwarts puts her in danger. Even still, she cannot stop herself from going back to the one place where she finds she fits in.

It matters not that when the lights have been turned off for the night, the doors and windows pulled shut and locked, and her parents have wished her good night with a hug and a kiss to the forehead, that Hermione lays awake, tossing and turning through the night, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Just to remind herself that she is still able to move. 

* * *

The four of them, on the cusp of transitioning from childhood to adolescence, each wear their burdens on their sleeves, and carry them on their backs, none of them willing to ask the others for help. It is not within their repertoire of thoughts. They believe this makes them strong, that this is what Gryffindors do. But it is, instead, what makes them children. It is what makes them far too young to deal with the hardships of those older.

And yet.  
  
They are mature beyond their years. As they should not have to be.

* * *

When Molly Weasley has her mind set upon an outcome, it is imperative to not become an obstacle. Narcissa knows this now. It did not take much of a logical leap for Molly to realize that the Malfoys do not wish to have their precious son cavorting with them – _she does however tend to believe that this is more on Lucius than it is on Narcissa, though she cannot deny her thoughts on them._

Nevertheless, she all but struts herself to where she knows Draco has been spending the summer. She cannot help herself. If she could, she would apparate directly to Harry’s house, steal him away from his belligerent relatives, and adopt him into the family.

While she was originally surprised at her son’s relationship towards Draco, she was even more stunned to find that she had (somewhat) grown to care for the boy she had only met once. Draco has her gratitude. From what Dumbledore had mentioned, though he knew it was not the full story, Draco helped save not only her son, but her daughter as well. Even if there were no debts to be paid, Molly would still be wanting to write a check.

She pulled her hair up out of her face, pinning it in place as she moved, and she huffed as she walked. She was not used to walking through the muggle world. It was as if a country girl was entering a city for the first time in her life. Everything was loud, and big and bright, and somewhat overwhelming, but all of these were silent as excitement took over. She only wished Arthur were here with her, but he would be stopping every moment to ask questions that she would have no answers to. 

Andromeda’s cottage sat on the outskirts of the city, and Molly found that it looked quite homey in a way she had not expected. Andromeda may have originally been a Black, but she carries a compassionate light within her. Just like she had thought her cousin to be, before October 31st, 1981. She had not thought of that man in years. She ignored the thought. Andromeda had to be different. She smoothed her dress with her hands and marched to the front door. 

When Andromeda answered, she took a step backwards, the door half-opened. Not an invitation. “Prewett?” Andromeda, asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“It’s Weasley now,” Molly stated matter-of-factly. Andromeda looked downcast, and a whispering could be heard somewhere behind the door. “May I?” Molly gestured towards the door. Andromeda put a smile on her face, despite it. She opened the door to her.

Molly stepped within the threshold of the house, and standing near the base of the stairs was Draco. He looked at her, not with contempt, but with confusion.

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Weasley?” Draco asked, politely, and Molly smiled. “I was under the impression that Mother had wrote to you.”

“She had,” Mrs. Weasley begins, looking to Andromeda with a spark in her eye, “I understand that you feel that my home is not open to you, and if you are anything like your family, you are stubborn enough to not accept any fact that may disprove that.” Andromeda looked like she was going to interrupt but decided to keep her mouth shut. Mrs. Weasley smiled, and felt more confident. “Ronald is maintaining his position in you joining us before the school year begins. Specifically at the Leaky Cauldron. The family will be meeting there until September 1st.”

Mrs. Weasley paused, allowed the invitation to hang in the air. She looked first to Andromeda and Ted, the latter having entered the room once he heard Molly speak. And then she looked to Draco. She thinks she can see the boy that her son can see: a tall, blond boy who was always on a stage. His shoulders were pushed back, his face kept at such a neutral expression that Mrs. Weasley thought must be uncomfortable. He was polite, quiet, but she could see the hint of emotion behind his eyes. Not a smirk, not a shout, rather something and someone somewhat arrogant and vulnerable. He was putting on a show of confidence. He was very much unlike his father in everything except appearance. He was very much not what Mrs. Weasley was expecting.

Draco blinked slowly, staring at Mrs. Weasley. “You will be meeting there? Meeting who?” 

“Hermione and Harry. We thought it would be best to go to the platform together.” Mrs. Weasley saw a change in Draco then at the mention of his friends. It was as if he changed completely; his eyes seemed brighter, a smile that rested more on the right side than the left side of his mouth appeared, and he allowed himself a more casual stance. This is the boy her son sees.

“When do we leave?”

Mrs. Weasley beams.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ "If nothing else, Harry knew this, life would never be easy for him. It just so happens that this intense realization came about after his face was smashed into the tall windows of a night bus." ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! College is keeping me busy, but I'm still trying make sure I write and update this for you all!
> 
> Thanks,   
isaiah

If nothing else, Harry knew this, life would never be easy for him. 

It just so happens that this intense realization came about after his face was smashed into the tall windows of a night bus. After blowing up his aunt. After running away.

The bus came to a halt, too fast, and Harry fell backwards, landing hard. With a groan, he pulled himself forward, to a sitting position and leaned against the side of the bus.

He was alone. The bus’s other occupants remaining asleep through the treacherous journey all relaxed in the level above leaving Harry as the sole passenger of the lower level. _What have I done? _His thoughts linger on dinner, on his anger rising and rising – _“You pathetic bastard, being a burden on your relatives while your drunken parents go and kill themselves in a car crash”_ – and he let out a frustrated yell.

“Oi! We got sleeping passengers!” the driver called back in a hushed manner. _Have you not been driving like a madman through London streets, but it’s me who is disturbing passengers?_ Harry glared at him, but held his tongue. He looked outside; the sleek buildings of London were giving way to grimier, dark architecture, and Harry forced his way forward to where the driver and the attendant stood.

“The Leaky Cauldron please,” Harry grumbled, bracing himself on the railings above. He was surprised to find that he did not need to stand up on his tiptoes in order to reach. He had no reason to think he would be allowed back at Hogwarts, but in the one last letter Harry managed to keep, Mrs. Weasley had told him to go there and meet them. He would know what to do once he met with the Weasleys. He only hoped Hermione would arrive soon after. Perhaps even Draco, but he wasn’t going to hold out on his latter friend.

“Oh, the Leaky Cauldron, eh?” the attendant slurred, his face in a gross sneer. He looked as if he needed to wash his face, a greasy sheen to his skin, and he held a newspaper close to his face, squinting. “That’s in London.”

“I’m aware of that, yes.” Harry looked forward out of the front window, closing his eyes as the motion blur made him sick to his stomach, and instead shifted his gaze to the attendant once more, this time falling to land on the newspaper rather than the man himself.

He was met face to face with a man, his long and matted hair covering the majority of his face, but he could make out an eye and his mouth. His mouth curled around a scream that Harry could only assume was deafening, and he appeared to be lurching outward from the picture. He had a familiar look to him, but Harry was sure he had not met him before. 

“Who is that?” he asked dumbly, and the attendant sighed, dropping the newspaper away from his face with a crinkling noise.

“Who?”

“That man, on the front of the newspaper. Who is he?” The attendant’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he turned the newspaper to the front. His face fell, his expression one of fear.

“Who – where have you been?” the attendant asked smarmily, but a hint of hysteria tinted his voice. “That’s Sirius Black!” When Harry met the information with more confusion, the attendant – _Stan_, as his name badge read – tossed him the newspaper so that Harry could get a closer look. “He’s a murderer. Got himself locked up in Azkaban for it.”

Harry was unnerved as he found his attention glued to the screaming man. “Who did he kill?" 

Stan waved a dismissive hand at him. “If you didn’t know who Black was, you wouldn’t know his victims.” Stan leaned in close, his nasty breath fogging up Harry’s glasses. “But know this, kid. He wasn’t just a murderer, ya see. He was also a follower of -,” Stan looked around him, as if checking to see the coast was clear, “You-Know-Who. And now he’s escaped.”

Harry could feel himself go pale, and his stomach lurched again, not just because he felt sick, but because the bus had come to a screeching halt. Stan looked out the window. “The Leaky Cauldron.”

Harry scurried back, collecting his meager belongings, and shoved the newspaper back into Stan’s hands. Stan tucked it into Harry’s shirt pocket. 

“Why don’t you keep it? Seeing as you’re so oblivious.” Harry grit his teeth, grabbed the newspaper from his pocket, and threw it at his feet. And without another word, hurried from the night bus. His foot had barely hit the asphalt before the bus had disappeared down the alley it had turned on.

Harry’s mind was racing, his thoughts in a constant shift, but he had no time to decipher any of it as he spied a man awaiting him at the door to the establishment.

“Is that you, Potter?” the short man asked, and as Harry stepped closer, he was frightened at how pale he appeared.

“Yes?”

“Ah good, we best get a move on then. He’s been wanting to speak to you.”

“Who?” 

“The Minister, sir.” Harry’s insides froze, his face falling, but he continued walking. _The Minister of Magic. _With heavy footsteps, he followed the man inside, and tried to ignore the feeling that was settling into his abdomen. He would not be returning to Hogwarts, would he?

* * *

“Draco, dear.” Andromeda leaned in the doorway to Draco’s room, peering in at him as he packed his belongings slowly. He did not have many to begin with. Father had not allowed him to take much. He did not wish to think of his father at the moment, but he found with an inner fury that his father permeated every thought in his mind nowadays.

Mrs. Weasley had since left with the promise that she would return with Ronald, and Andromeda had sent Draco upstairs. She didn’t raise her hand or wand to him, but he was unsure if she was mad at him. He was never sure of other’s feelings towards him.

He paused and looked at her. He said nothing. He was unsure he was allowed to speak. Her face seemed neutral but was progressively getting strained, her eyebrows coming together as she searched for what she needed to say. She opened and closed her mouth several times before taking a step into the room. 

“Is this what you wish to do, or what you think your friends would like for you to do?” Draco allowed the question to simmer.

“There really isn’t much of a difference, is there?”

“I know you haven’t heard from them-.”

“Don’t,” Draco said simply, turning his back away from his aunt. He did not need the reminder. He picked up a shirt, unfolded it, folded it again, placed it in his trunk. He repeated the action. Andromeda looked onward sadly.

“What has happened to you?” she said quietly, and if Draco was not paying much attention, he would have missed it. “I know my sister tries, and I know my brother-in-law…doesn’t. But sadness sits on your shoulders. Can you talk to me please?”

Draco turned to face his aunt again, and he found nothing to say, nor did he wish to divulge into his troubles. He shook his head.

“Is it guilt? Anger?” she pressed, and he continued to shake his head. “_Jealousy_?”

“What would I have to be guilty about? To be jealous about?”

“Quite a lot!” Andromeda exclaimed, and Draco shoved his shirt aside, leaving it to lay crumpled on the floor. He gave her his full attention now, and Andromeda seemed to smolder, but not with anger. Frustration. _There’s a difference. _“Your bastard of a father has left you. Your friends have not written. You spend your time all alone in a garden in a strange town.” Draco closed his eyes, breathing heavily. “And yet, you’re stoic. Most children would have lashed out, but you’ve closed your eyes. Repressed it.”

“What do you want me to say? I cannot change these situations.”

“But you can _feel_. You are not allowing yourself to feel. You look like a-." 

“A what?”

“You’re acting as though you’re just some little soldier! All “yes ma’am” and no “ma’am.” 

“_Stop_.”

Draco stood in front of her, and he looked down to the ground. His feet were pressed together, his back felt too straight, his chest up. His face neutral – any emotion meant vulnerability. He did not wish for his aunt to see him. But a deep anger had risen in his chest, clung to his throat, threatening so spill past his lips like a festering, black tar.

“Who are _you_ to say any of that?” Draco began, his voice so low and uncharacteristic that Andromeda took a step back. “Who are you to have any say on the life I’ve lived? Who are you to speak of my life when you’ve stayed out of it, abandoned your family, run away. How are you any different than my _bastard_ of a father, huh?" 

Andromeda stared at him, her eyes wide at him. Draco turned his back on her one final time. “You have no right,” Draco seethed, and with a quick whip of his wand behind him, slammed the door in his aunt’s face. _His_ magic wasn’t a luxury; it was his necessity. 

In the receding sound of his aunt’s footsteps, Draco found himself again, exhausted, and he slumped to the floor, a too heavy feeling in his stomach. What scared him was not his actions, but his lack of feeling. In fact, he found he felt nothing at all.

* * *

Hogwarts awaited them all.

Hogwarts was not his home, Draco thought, and yet, he would be returning to it. The school housed something evil, he could feel this fact ache in his bones. It was not the school that cared for him, but his friends.

The friends that do not care enough to write him. The friends that care enough to venture into a chamber at the fruitless attempt to save him from death. The friends that if they knew of Draco’s inner tempest would drop whatever they were doing to help. The friends he was holding back. The life he felt he could not live.

His life felt like a contradiction of thoughts. He pushed them aside. 

His aunt had said he was stoic, but he knows better. He is simply broken.

* * *

The four of them stood on the platform, Arthur and Molly having since departed with loving goodbyes on their lips, a rat in Molly’s hands that she rushed back to Ronald when he inevitably forgot something.

Ron and Harry stood awkwardly next to each other, a heavy feeling in the air. Hermione and Draco were attempting small talk, but were finding nothing to say. Despite the end of the summer heat, they found themselves wrapped in a bundle of sweaters. Both Draco and Hermione found themselves cold. They stood close, sharing in the knowledge they have, the knowledge that they were not in the chamber and they could move again. They shivered.

Following one after another, they boarded the train, Ron taking a moment to see to it that Ginny was settled in with several friends. Walking back down the long corridor, he found the three of his friends easily, though spied a fourth person within the compartment. He entered quietly.

“Who’s that?” Ron whispered, his head nodded towards the dozing person pressed against the wall and window.

“Professor R.J. Lupin,” Hermione answered in a similar quiet tone, though her personality shone in through her words.

“How do you know _everything_?”

“It’s on his suitcase.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you ask if you didn’t think we had an answer?” Draco found himself saying, and Ron laughed a quiet, “_I don’t know._”

Harry was quiet as the four of them sat, and he was tense. Draco had sat beside him, Hermione and Ron across from them. He stared at his shoes, then out the window, then towards the sleeping professor. _Why was a professor on the train with students?_ Harry wondered, _and why was he so calm that he was sleeping_? He leaned forward. “Do you think he’s actually sleeping?”

Draco spoke up beside him. “Why would he be acting?” Harry shrugged, and stood fast to the confusion of his friends. With a swift move, he closed the compartment door completely. His words were for his friends alone.

“I need to talk to you.”

Harry quickly recounted is anxious conversation with Fudge, having stood to pace the center of the small compartment, confusion being a constant emotion coming and going from their faces.

Draco remained quiet in Harry’s story, unsure of what he could offer, but he found that Ron and Hermione did not add much to conversation either, except for perhaps the occasional question. Harry was working himself up, his latest obsession being the man on the newspaper.

“Well,” Ron said, finally intrigued, “why would he escape now? I mean, you said he’s been there for like, what-.”

“Twelve years,” Hermione finished.

“Yeah,” Ron faltered, but recovered quickly, nodding. 

“It seems like a long time to stay in prison just to break out at a random time,” Draco added, the normal cogs in his brain that should be running a mile a minute feeling quite rusted. 

Harry continued pacing, but a small smile graced his lips. _It feels like before_. He looked at Draco, and Draco looked back at him, and Harry blushed and broke his gaze.

“Maybe,” Hermione began, and Harry could already feel anxiety in his stomach, “he knows Harry is here.” Harry paused in his pacing and looked toward her, a bewildered expression on his face. “It’s the start of a school year. Maybe he was unsure of your age, got the year off by two. I’m sure he doesn’t have a calendar in prison.”

“But why would he be looking for me Hermione? I mean, I’ve never even heard of Sirius Black.” Draco snapped his head up, recognition.

“But he knows who you are.” The three of his friends all turned to stare at him, urging him to continue. “Sirius Black. Blood traitor.” When he three friends still seemed to not be following, he continued. “Of _my_ family.”

“Oh.” It was Hermione’s voice, small, and the professor pressed against the wall sniffled slightly in his sleep.

“What?” Harry asked, somewhat desperate at not being able to follow. Hermione looked at Draco, who in turn looked at him with sad eyes. “Can somebody please explain?”

Draco did. “He was friends with your parents, Harry. Your dad.” Silence filled the compartment as Harry stood, still, his expression one that Draco could not place, only seeing that he was tense. 

“My-.”

“Harry, sit,” Ron said, trying to break Harry’s stupor, and when he made no move to do so, Draco grabbed his arm gently, pulling him down. 

“How do you know?” _How did he know?_

“Mother,” Draco began, a lump in his throat at the thought of her, “she mentioned his name once. Father had swiftly silenced her. _‘If I’d had my way, that blood traitor would be dead where he stood. Run off to the Potters. The _filth_. They won’t last long,’_ he’d said. I hadn’t realized Sirius existed until Father showed me the tapestry -,” he corrected himself, “the family tree. Showed me what happens to blood traitors. Sirius’s face had been burned away, but his name remained. I hadn’t really remembered until now.”

Silence resumed as Harry stared forward, not quite himself.

The camaraderie feeling that had settled in the carriage had dissipated, and as Draco looked at his friends, he found them exhausted. It was a physical feeling, and he turned his attention to outside the window. The lights within the compartment flickered before they shut off abruptly, leaving the occupants in a pale blue light as the window pane gradually froze over.

Somewhere far off, a shape moved in the distance. Draco could see it, Ron could see it, and he backed away from the window suddenly. As it moved closer, the creature came into view. A cape concealed a gruesome face but it did little to provide a full shade.

The four students huddled close. Hermione shut her eyes. Draco was cold, and his breathing quickened, and he could find no reason to believe he was safe when every alarm in his body told him this was not the case. Harry was quiet, deathly static as he stared out the window, and he looked ready to move forward to get a closer look when Draco placed a hand on his arm, his plea implicit.

Somewhere close by, a man snored as the figure approached the window, the sound of nails scratching catching the four of them gasping as a ghastly hand reached out, clasping the lock with accurate fingers.

The window slid backwards, revealing its figure in its entirety. Draco had only heard them mentioned by name, but the actual presence of one chilled him. He felt small, shriveled, as if pushed into the floor, into the ground, in the cold stone of a chamber floor. His chest felt tight the longer he stared. Death itself had entered the carriage. 

“Dementor,” he managed before the figure lunged forward.

It pulled at them, and Draco fell hard to the floor, Hermione and Ron being shoved back to their original seats as the dementor leaned into Harry. Draco looked, saw Harry’s face, unbridled terror in his eyes.

Somewhere close by, Harry screamed.

And Draco fumbled, his wand in his shaking hands pointed at the creature that was killing his friend.

He’d heard the spell before. His mind flashed, his mother beside him, Draco being himself but much, _much_ younger. He could feel his mother’s hand in his, her hands delicate against his soft hands, and she was guiding him along a pathway that wound to the backyard of the Manor. The bright yellow and reds and greens of nature filled his eyes, the smells of honey and lavender filling his senses. His father was somewhere behind, not too far. He was a different man then. 

Draco held onto this. He grasped his wand with both hands, and a yell was wrenched from his throat. “_Expecto Patronum_.”

And to his horror, only singular wisps of silver smoke trailed from the end of his wand like a gun firing blanks. He yelled. “_Expecto Patronum._” He stood himself up, his small frame barely reaching the full height of the dementor, the creature now turning its attention towards him. He felt every aspect of him shaking not of his own accord, and if he had looked at his fingers, he would have seen frost. He sobbed. “_Expecto Patronum._” More silver, nothing tangible. And as the dementor peered down at him, the area where its face should be directly in front of Draco, Draco thinks, _perhaps I am not meant to live._

Somewhere far off, in Harry’s mind, a woman screams. A man is weeping indistinct words.

Somewhere far off, a father was raising his voice. A father was raising his hand, his wand. His father was pointing it at his mother, an inaudible threat in his voice. Draco’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapses.

Somewhere far off, a professor awakens, and jumps to his feet, and with a wand in hand, a surprisingly gently voice, he leans forward towards the creature, tempting. And with the barest hint of hesitation, utters the words. “_Expecto Patronum_.”

Harry, coming back to himself, his gaze upon the ceiling, blurry, witnesses the burst of the brightest light he thinks he’s ever seen, and wonders when he will see his parents, if this is the time to go. His ears are ringing.

He hears a vile shriek pierce the air as the creature is sucked back outside as if caught in a vacuum, and excruciatingly, the carriage is thrust back into a numbing silence but for the wind whipping outside the cracked window and the sound of four teenagers fighting frantically for their breaths.

Somewhere far off, a professor yells at a train conductor.

Somewhere far off, a castle appears on the horizon.

And somewhere close by, four friends hold onto each other in the silence of the empty train.

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!
> 
> Can you believe it's year three already? Because I can't!
> 
> Welcome to another story. Hope you enjoy this one as much as the last two. And thank you for sticking around. 
> 
> -isaiah


End file.
